Hawk Brother
by Fey Halfkin
Summary: [Wanderers Oasis] He had only his goshawk partner and the Wind Trail: an elusive path to find a place to belong. He has known many levels of sorrow in his life. Does he dare hope that 'a hawk can nest among dragons? '


He ignored the knarl of long, brown hair curtaining his face. It didn't matter to him that the occasional wind pushed in any which way: he was motionless with his eyes closed. The sunlight dappled through the forest canopy as the rest of the world continued around un-noticed by him. There he stayed lost in thought. Trained elven ears followed the eventual return of his partner, but her presence didn't fully register. It wasn't until a familiar weight dropped on his shoulder that he noticed.

A small smile became visible as he turned his head, hair just falling enough to see thru, in greeting. Her beak nipped to preen lock strands while her long wings half-opened to balance the now loose claw hold on his shoulder. A tanned hand slipped from the casual grip upon the crescent staff across his knees to a pouch at his belt and came back with a tidbit of meat. She 'kek kek'-ed in pleasure before snatching it. He ignored the protest of his ear next to her to gently scratch her crest feathers; careful of her sharp beak and talons.

Only weeks before had the last fledging left the nesting grounds. Before that his winged-partner had been extremely defensive toward any coming near, himself included. It was a lonely three moon turns without her by his side. Her return was a touching treat to the heart. Soon enough they would abandon their respective nesting grounds, their now familiar hunting areas, and continue following the Wind Trail; an elusive place to call home that only the winds had seen. Months and many miles had already passed.

He dreamed of the dead nearly any night he didn't work himself to exhaustion. Less then pleasant memories mixed with the guilt. They drove him to sleeping on the ground for fear that the nightmares would have him falling out of the tree branches. His crescent staff, with the half-circle razor on the end, gripped tightly for protection. It was his only close combat weapon. More then once it saved his life from night predators or the occasional human group. He rarely used a light blanket unless frost touched the ground for fear that it would tangle his staff.

During the day he was careful. A moderate pace, hunting small game with his winged-partner, finding water until late afternoon, as well as tend any injuries. But when late afternoon came he stashed his two bags in a 'safe' high branch and set off at a grueling pace in a large circle. It was good to check for anything in his daily new 'nesting ground'. A quick bite to eat or drink and then he relentlessly practiced his crescent staff: the offensive moves and hook-climb technique until muscles ached. Hopefully he would drop off into oblivion until the next morning.

No words were spoken; there was no one to speak to. The same went for how he started wearing less and less. His boots were getting worn enough that his pace was slowing if he didn't want to limp. There was no hope of new clothes, for he only knew basics of tanning. So the three shirts were stored in the bag as spare bandages, warmth or skin covering. The jewelry that would only tangle in his hair, so it was packed away, leaving his waist length hair free.

But with his winged-partner, Arrow, he took no chances. Every other day, between the last meal/rest and the late afternoon 'exercise', he coaxed her into letting him check her over. She enjoyed his fingers nearly preening all her feather to make sure none were broken or loose. Any feathers shed were collected for reasons he only half remembered.

Scars were quickly appearing on his arms where Arrow would land. Her sharp talons were not gentle on his tanned skin, but he endured. There was no leather to form bracers, or at least nothing he knew of to make them. And he loathed losing even this painful contact with his partner. Arrow learned to perch more delicately, not wishing her elven friend harm, but it was difficult when he was constantly on the move. It was she who stayed a-wing to hunt birds or hares while scouting. She could neatly dance at high speeds between the tree branches. There was a special joy when her partner would rest awhile because she could 'feel' him watching, rejoicing behind her eyes.

It was his singular pleasure. To 'fly' while blisters or injuries had him still during daylight. His longbow brought door larger game without too much trouble and allowed them days away from the Wind Trail. At least until the nightmares returned.

He was tired, and half the day yet remained. Even sitting down for his meal had the earth pulling him further into the ground. Bad enough he couldn't fly save through Arrow's eyes, but did the world need to remind him?

/_Go, skyfell fledging. Make an attempt at it for all I mind. /_

The voice rang out clearly despite its hold in memory. It had him reflexively scowling as his head jerked to the side where only empty air was: a phantom shadow faded before his eyes could settled on it. And as he caught himself reacting to a taunt many decades old it only turned the anger from –Him- to himself. Ear tips burned red and hands trembled into fists as he bowed his head.

'Pelt you by hail,' he cursed silently. Memory interposed over the forest he sat in. To unfocused green eyes that slowly looked up the faint sounds of wildlife became the murmurs of conversation to familiar silhouettes. Their colors fading in, and an odd phrase reached his ear as though he was waking from a nap taken in the midst of the celebration. Robes, trailing sleeves added to the effect of birds as the tribe glided all around him. Some stood in casual gatherings, discussing or eating, while others did playful mock-fights in flight above.

/_ …Snatch-feather would. No pity… /_

_/ …cute like his father. /_

_/ … what Thunderhawk said. Why he lets Twisted-wing hang around I don't know. /_

Two hated nicknames caught his attention to a small group below a few aerial Dancers. The five tribemates were only a little older then him and not too far from him when his head spun to face them. He had identified that it was the gentle Owlbind, with her youthful blue eyes, that had compared him to his mage father. The same shade of brown hair and hazel eyes that gave birth to the first hated name: Snatch-feather, son of Bluefeather. It wasn't his tribal name, but it was common slander whispered among his peers.

As for the one spiteful comment concerning him and Thunderhawk it was easy to see who voiced it. The scowling face of Talon aimed at him made his face flush red. They gestured and laughed with the other three, who added comments more to do with the celebration then him. Owlbind, of course, avoided his gaze in embarrassment. He had heard them tease her about having a crush on a cripple: barbed inside her friend's tones.

Anger sparked defiance. If he had more self-control he wouldn't have arisen to the challenge, but the earlier put-down by Thunderhawk added to this, compelled him now.

A long sleeve 'sweep' as he stalked a small circle cleared a little space. Music continued and aerial Dancers hadn't faltered from their displays as he gathered his fury into himself. He, who could not glide as even fledging elves could, began his own Dance.

And it felt as real as the day he'd done it.

Arrow watched from her branch as he moved in twirls and jumped small 'dives'. Her wide eyed gaze felt to him as –His- ever judging eyes would. The Dance was constant motion. It was arms used like large wings; staying as little as he had to touching ground with moves that quickly put fire in his muscles. And he pushed himself in front of Them, and his winged-partner, until only furious pride kept him going. He could feel the feather jewelry now packed at the bottom of his hunting bag as they twisted in his wake. The trailing sleeves whip at every turn until their 'snap' sounds resembled wing-beats. He crouched and swept a foot all the way around as a hawk would wheel upon prey.

The trance lasted and persisted as the daystar moved into early evening. Blisters bleed inside his worn boots. But while he saw the Then, he still reacted to the Now. Hands grabbed his crescent staff and added its razor hook end to the Dance. When a foot bumped a small log not remembered he adjusted to move around it. It lasted until legs fell beneath him and he sprawled on the ground gasping for air. Any angry tears had mingled with sweat, leaving green eyes dull and confused.

**Well flown** a familiar female mind approved as his winged-partner flew away. He barely moved. Rarely did he face the truth of how unstable his mind was getting. Helpless to venting his anger he settled for a harsh scream that blended his terror, pain and loneliness. Closed eyes were dry of tears. Amidst the soul-draining emptiness seeping him, he spared a brief question to the Wind Trail before darkness ensnared him.

'Why me!'

"Kek kek kek," chattered close to by when he regained his senses. Awareness crept back slowly. When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was a dead bird nearly touching his face. Panic briefly swept through him before his mind caught up to the fact that it was a raven, not a hawk.

"Arr… ?"

The first vocal attempt in moons was more a breath then a word, but his wing-partner gingerly walked closer to his head. Her talons preferred gripping around branch or arm to ground travel. It only took a short shuffle from the raven's body to him. Red eyes stared as he started moving protesting muscles until he'd rolled over to sit up. Grimacing at how any movement only had hamstrings, tendons, and muscles he hadn't known he'd had to protest. He was feeling bruised all over.

**Stupid fledging** the familiar mind-touch of Arrow reflected the disapproving concern that bird eyes couldn't show. Her head stayed in profile when she 'bowed' down to his level. **Broken birds on ground, fanged meat-eaters, bad. No Courting Dance. No mates. Dangerous pack territory hunts here.**

The images/emotions blanked his mind because he couldn't think of a reply anyway. It had been stupid to push himself so far when he had little food and nobody to lend a hand. Arrow was the eyes, flier and talons; he was the hands, bow and carrier of food. He accepted it by necessity.

At first he attempted to get up slowly to minimize the pain lancing every movement. All it did was prolong the torture and sweat hard enough that all his skin felt clammy. He couldn't track how long it took to stand. The world narrowed to his own flesh, then slowly expanded back as he made himself gingerly move. And it didn't help that during that day he stumbled upon an insect hill while resting for mid-day meal. Later that evening he fumed at his slow pace to distract himself of the 'ghosts' on the edges of his senses.


End file.
